Pilly in the Truck

So, if I was really good at this, I guess I would tell it all in sequence, as it happened, but if you know me at all you are aware already of how foolish it would be to expect that, At least, from me.

I jump around a lot. Just so you know.

Before leaving I had asked my Dear Husband if there were any mountains to go over that had roads steep enough to require a runaway ramp. He said no. He lied.

When you come to a very large sign that announces, "ALL trucks MUST pull into lot to check brakes before descending mountain" that is really State Patrolese for, "Really steep mothertrucking hill dead ahead. Begin prayers now."

It was a six percent grade with three--no one, not two, count 'em THREE runaway ramps. I was thrilled, really. On an interstate that all put plotzes over the thought that you might pull off, stop, stand, sit or otherwise hesitate anywhere along it's length, it is alarming to read, "Trucks MAY pull off and stop to cool brakes." Oh, goody.

I can think of nothing more delightful, really, than pausing on the precipice to cool my brakes. Only trucks can use the right hand lane (the one closest to the drop) because all trucks must have access to the runaway ramp.

We, ourselves, did not use our brakes at all. We did some cool thing called shifting into eighth gear and "walking" down the mountain. Twice we passed under signs that stated loudly, "If your speed exceeds 35mph you are going too fast! Reduce speed NOW." I was all in favor of that, I can tell you.

Halfway down the mountain we passed a bed and breakfast sign. I had no interest in breakfast and I was pretty sure bed wasn't going to do me any good, either. While descending Mount Olympus there, no one cares about your bed and breakfast. Put up a sign that says, "Cheap parachutes" and you might get my attention. Bed and Breakfast, no.

At the bottom some industrious soul had made a hand painted sign and nailed it to a tree. "Jesus is Coming," it said. Dude, I've got news for you. Your wait is over, Jesus is here. If you're at the bottom of that hill and your heart is still beating, Jesus joined the wagon train somewhere around the bed and breakfast sign and he's been with you ever since, you can quit waiting.

You want to put up a useful sign put one up that says, "Clean Underwear next five miles," There's a sign that will make you some money

So, anyway, North Carolin is really beautiful. Not that mountain part, but the rest of it is worth seeing. They have some great tunnels right through the mountain. I personally feel that if we were going to tunnel through the mountain maybe we could have started at the bottom and completely done away with runaway ramps altogether. But apparently, no one but me has considered that.

Maybe there's a good reason for tunneling through five feet from the top of Mount Everest to shave thirty seconds off your trip, but if so, no one has informed me of it to date. I would just like to suggest that it might be a good idea to start further down. I don't even like tunnels, I'm claustrophobic, but even I prefer tunnels to parasailing over the top like we do now.

Now that I think of it, it's not surprising Jesus was there, we were only about ten feet from his house there in heaven and he probably thought we would feel bad if he didn't at least step out on the porch and wave.

I didn't see him on account of I had my head between my knees, clutching my Rosary beads and talking to his mother at the time, but still.

It was in Paducah, Kentucky that I learned what was wrong with the coffee. I had noticed that coffee wasn't working like it should. Jimmy went in every morning and brought me some nice coffee from the truckstop, which was surely thoughtful of him, but it didn't seem to have any guts to it.

I like coffee to kick start my heart and scream loudly at my brain until my mind consents to wake up. And it wasn't happening. And that's a little odd because truck drivers, of all the people in the world should probably be experts on coffee. I mean, now that west Coast Turnaround is no longer available, you would think they would be relying heavily on the coffee.

Okay, some wimpy mother's group got a law passed that states that for every ten consecutive hours you drive you must be off duty for fourteen, and there is less need for truly butt kicking road dope, but still, you would think they would still want some serious coffee.

So, anyway, in Kentucky I went in to get my own coffee and when Mr. Professional directed me to the very lightest little old lady coffee in the world, because, he said, "I always drink this one because it doesn't have so much bite to it," I realized wherein lay the problem, and took my self to the spigot with the darkest roast, most potent, serious coffee in the United States (it's Pilot's own blend, incidentally) and finally found something worth drinking.

As I was preparing to add the four containers of cream it takes for that coffee, I noticed fortunately that the little half and half containers were black, which was odd, so I read them. And they were not cream, they were something called a "Trucker's Shot" which is apparently enough caffeine to make your own jet fuel.

So I had cream, instead, because even I did not really need to fly over the mountain without my truck. I did so enjoy Kentucky though because all the people there are nice, which you cannot say for southern Illinois (Not counting Cairo) where I met a lovely little girl who got a little snippy when I asked her a question regarding her town, which apparently, I pronounced wrong.

Anybody might have, it had about six Qs, no vowels to speak of and may have been an Indian word for, "Kiss your white ass goodbye, we just sharpened the scalping knives" and if the settlers in question had been this girl's ancestors my sympathy lies entirely with the native peoples, I assure you.

I would just like to state for the historical record and the edification of female teenagers in Illinois who work at truck stops that it is not a mark of any kind of superiority to be able to correctly pronounce the name of the town you were born in. Everyone can do that. I know dogs who can even come close. Being polite to visitors, now, is a skill we all should cultivate.

To balance that, however, there was a truly lovely gentleman in North Carolina who not only held the door for me but said, "Welcome home!" which I thought was a rather lovely way to welcome people to your state.

So, anyway, there's more but Aiden and Nina just discovered some shampoo with a pump lid and are now busy decorating the kitchen floor and themselves with a pearly pink substance I can only assume is soap. And as I am not sure it is edible and safe for eyes, I had better go.

I'll tell you about the rivers and the photographs later.

And I AM going to be a grandma for the twelfth time in APRIL. Go granny, go granny, go granny, go!!!!